The Time-Thief

by Patience Agbabi

  ‘I guess you guys got a plus one. I’m classed as an adult so you got backup if things go wrong. I never visited 1752. I hate it like Kwesi but someone’s gotta keep an eye. It’s 5 o’clock now. Let’s get outta here and leap, guys!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling in my tummy. We’re seeing Francis the day he receives the Glass. We might not be his only visitors. The woman who’s been pestering Francis might be—’

  ‘The prime suspect,’ says MC2.

  Chapter 15:00

  FRANCIS

  We leap to an alley near St Paul’s Cathedral so we’re less likely to be seen appearing out of thin air. Big Ben and I are wearing the 18th-century clothes from yesterday, except I have trainers under the long skirt; GMT’s dressed like a boy, her hair scraped into a ponytail, wearing a bottle-green velvet jacket from the 1960s and makeshift breeches. We approach the massive building in awe. The cathedral still looks new because it was totally rebuilt after it burnt down in the Great Fire of London in 1666. I went on a school trip in my primary school so I know where the entrance is.

  There are lots of people gathered outside, the men wearing strange white wigs and three-cornered hats; the women in full-length embroidered dresses and silk shoes. The air smells of rotten potatoes and horse poo. At the top of the entrance steps, a small black boy wearing a brown velvet coat, black breeches and black shoes with silver buckles waves at us. Francis! He looks younger than ten but his voice sounds older.

  ‘Greetings, Leaplings!’ He gives a little bow. ‘Welcome to 1752. Today is the 24th of June but I am sure your Chronophones will inform you of that! Did you have a good trip? Are you coming back for the 11-day leap and the Carnival of the Calendar? The Master procured me a ticket for he knows everyone in London but he knows not of the existence of Leaplings.’

  ‘Good to meet you, honeybee,’ says GMT, bowing back. ‘Hey, we only just got here. One trip at a time.’

  Francis laughs. ‘You must be GMT in men’s attire. And you must be Elle and you must be Big Ben. And I am merely Master Francis.’

  ‘I like your name,’ I say.

  ‘So do I. It is still fresh on my lips from the christening. It is not the name I was enslaved with.’

  ‘What were you called before?’

  Francis beckons us to follow him and we walk down the steps and turn left.

  ‘I was alone at the May Day celebration, amid much dancing and merriment, when a voice said, “Quashey!” I replied, “Yes,” for that was my previous name. I turned around to see two young men, black as me, wearing curious attire, and I was puzzled since I knew them not. And they were puzzled too since it was the first time they had encountered me.’

  ‘MC2 and Kwesi!’ I say. ‘Kwesi and Quashey’s the same name.’

  ‘That one word drew us together by chance. Had MC2 not addressed his friend that very second, we should never have met. I have a good master and splendid lodgings but am surrounded by those who have seen better days. I longed for young company. And now I have it: MC2, Kwesi and you.’

  ‘Are you a slave or not?’

  That didn’t come out how I wanted it to but that’s what I really want to know.

  ‘I am servant to Mr Johnson, slave to Colonel Bathurst, my old master. I was born into slavery in Jamaica. When Colonel Bathurst came back to England, he brought me with him. His son, a kind man, looked after me and bestowed me upon Mr Johnson this April. I am still bound to my previous master until I buy my freedom.’

  ‘You have to PAY to be free!’ My mouth is a capital O. He should never have been enslaved in the first place. They should pay Francis money.

  ‘I do. But Mr Johnson pays me a small sum so one day I’ll have enough money. But I never discuss it; the Master turns purple with rage at the very word slavery, but his views are considered eccentric.’

  ‘What do you do as a servant?’

  ‘Very little. The most taxing job is tending to Master’s wig.’ I try not to laugh: he’s not doing a very good job!

  ‘If you have a job, does that mean you don’t go to school?’

  ‘I boarded in Yorkshire but now the Master instructs me.’

  Big Ben frowns. ‘What about your parents? Do they miss you?’

  ‘I have no recollection of them.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘My mum’s dead but my dad’s alive somewhere in Nigeria. I don’t know him. Grandma’s like a mum to me.’

  ‘As Mr Johnson is like a father to me. “Family,” he declares, “are those who live in the same house.”’ He pauses. ‘If I were a Leapling, I might leap to Jamaica to discover my family. Or leap to the future where I would no longer be a slave. But I was born an Annual and predestined to live in this century.

  ‘Leaplings, it is 1752 and we are out of doors. The Master says there is no better city than London. It is my duty, therefore, to show you London and your duty to paint the future before my very eyes.’

  We turn into a wide, dusty, potholed street and it’s like someone has turned the volume and visuals and smells up! The sound of horses’ hooves against the cobbles, pulling carriages full of people with powdered faces, the women with beauty spots; steaming horse poo; sheep running riot; people shouting from shop windows like it’s an outdoor market; pedestrians with scarred, twisted faces; far more black people than I was expecting, which makes me feel a bit better – they can’t all be slaves; tiny ragged children with eyes too big for their heads; the air thick as soup. Breathing through my mouth doesn’t help. Francis helps us cross the road.

  ‘I see the past overwhelms you.’

  I nod, unable to answer. GMT gives me a concerned look and offers me a sweet. She unwraps it and pops it into my mouth so I don’t have to coordinate whilst I’m walking. Orange! This isn’t leapsickness, it’s sensory overload, but it does the trick. I focus on the flavour and try to make everything else fade into the background.

  Thankfully, we take a right turn and it’s quieter, though still bustling with shops and people.

  ‘Friday Street,’ says Francis proudly, like he named it himself. ‘You will appreciate there are fewer carriages in the back streets; they are not built for horses.’

  ‘Do you have cars?’ says Big Ben.

  ‘Alas, no!’ says Francis. ‘MC2 sent me a video of a Tesla on the Chronophone he gave me. Future vehicles are far superior to now.’

  ‘Cars are noisy and bad for the planet!’ says GMT. ‘Least you can use manure to grow plants.’

  Big Ben’s shaking his head. ‘Eco-cars are the future. When I invent one.’

  Francis does what-big-eyes. ‘You invent cars?’

  ‘When I’m grown up.’

  ‘You are already grown!’

  We all smile. Big Ben is the tallest person in the street. Pedestrians and shopkeepers do what-big-eyes at his spiky hair and too-short breeches. I try not to think about how much attention he’s attracting to us but everyone’s staring at Francis, GMT and me just as much. Maybe they’re wondering whether Francis is an escaped slave, if GMT’s a boy or a girl and what on earth I’m wearing on my feet! It’s 1752 and we stand out. No wonder they’re staring.

  ‘So, the London of the future is noisier than this?’ says Francis.

  I nod. ‘There are red buses as well as cars, and lots of planes flying overhead and London Underground tube trains and—’

  ‘What are buses and planes and tube trains? Describe them.’

  We do our best but it’s quite hard describing something that hasn’t even been IMAGINED in 1752.

  The streets get narrower and narrower, I start to feel claustrophobic and Francis tenses like MC2 does when he’s about to leap.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Chamber pots!’

  ‘We shoulda brought an umbrella,’ says GMT.

  I lower my head and hunch like I’m 100. I HATE 1752. It’s noisy, dirty and evil. No wonder Kwesi told us not to come. But Big Ben seems to like it. He’s impressing Francis about aeroplanes and getting his Ch
ronophone out to send him some videos. They make a strange contrast: Big Ben, super tall, scruffy and white; Francis, well-dressed, small and black. GMT warns them to keep the Chronophones hidden.

  ‘Fear not, GMT. Children are invisible in 1752.’

  ‘Then why were they staring so much on the main street?’

  ‘They stare but they don’t see. When MC2 did his disappearing act, nobody fainted.’

  ‘He did what? Wait till I get back—’

  ‘I thought he was a duppy, a ghost, and ran direct in front of a passing coach but Kwesi secured me. He told me they were Leaplings from the future. I wish I had the power to leap through time!’

  ‘Did Kwesi speak?’

  ‘No. He wrote the words on his Chronophone.’

  We’re on a main road again that Francis calls Thames Street.

  ‘Francis, where are we going?’ I say.

  ‘To the river. Prepare your nose for the stench. But your eyes will be rewarded.’

  We turn right and the smell hits me first. If I thought it was smelly before, the river is far worse. Like every shop’s a fish shop and all the sewage of London meets here. GMT helps me take off my shawl and use it to cover my nose and mouth like a mask. I don’t care if I look weird; I just have to hold it together. But a split second later, I forget about the smell.

  My mouth forms a capital O.

  I see London Bridge and the River Thames but not like I recognise from my primary school trip. London Bridge has BUILDINGS all the way across it on both sides, so many, surely it will collapse with the weight! And the Thames is much, much wider and so full of boats, barges and small ships, I wonder how they have space to sail at all! Francis is staring at the river like it’s his specialist subject.

  ‘Here they have frost fairs when the Thames freezes over. I cannot IMAGINE more fun. Tell me,’ he says, ‘how London has changed between now and the future!’

  We approach London Bridge, more like a tunnel with its tall buildings leaning into each other. Most of them are shops with fresh fancy signs outside but the buildings are old and dilapidated. There are crowds of people walking, horses and carriages going both ways, right and left, so we could get run over, and people sitting in covered chairs with poles attached so other people can carry them. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  ‘Are they disabled?’

  ‘No, they are not. The sedan chair is a common transportation for hire but take note: those adorned with gold and brocade belong to the monied class who wish to be seen but contribute little to society. Master says only their wealth disables them. He ridicules the idle rich.’ He pauses. ‘Do you wish to cross the bridge to the bankside? Or perhaps we can walk to the new Bridge of Westminster, though we will be obliged to retrace our steps and go via Fleet Street.’

  ‘I’d like to see the new bridge,’ I say. ‘But can’t we cross London Bridge and walk by the river? In the future, you can walk all the way along the South Bank.’

  ‘Alas, there is no path, merely manufactories,’ Francis sighs. ‘How can I compete with your future? I could show you Tyburn,’ he continues, ‘but ’tis a long walk and there is no advertised hanging today. Master forbids me to go when there is. But if the villain is famous, we enjoy a public holiday. Do they hang people in London in the future?’

  ‘Goodness, no! But they put them in prison.’

  The word prison makes me think of MC2 and reminds me, as we walk from the river back to Thames Street, that we’re not here for sightseeing; we’re here on a mission. I want to ask Francis lots of questions but I bite my tongue. We’ve only just met him; we need to gain his trust. Francis is lonely because he’s ten but lives with old people. We must make the day special for him as well as useful for us. It’s like he reads my mind.

  ‘I love the river. The Master declares it a lawless sewer, free-flowing or frosted. He fears I might be captured and resold but I have faith I will not. I go there to escape from Mistress Anna when she’s angry and watch the boats.’

  ‘We met her yesterday at the house. She was quite grumpy.’

  ‘One day,’ says Francis, ‘I’m going to sail away on a big ship and travel the world.’

  ‘I want to see the world by Lamborghini Asterion,’ says Big Ben.

  ‘Master says a ship is a prison on water, and for many of my fellow brothers it is.’ His eyes look serious but then he smiles. ‘For me, it will be freedom. Notwithstanding his objections, today Master indulged my passion with a gift. A marine sandglass “to remind you of the sea and the culling of the calendar,” he said.’

  We stop in our tracks. The background noise of horses and shouting disappears and there’s nothing on our minds but the task: quizzing Francis for clues to help get MC2 out of prison. Yet now Francis has mentioned the sandglass, we’re lost for words. As he enjoys talking, he doesn’t notice how serious we’ve all become. We start walking again and Thames Street, with all its sights, sounds and smells, comes back into focus.

  ‘So today is the best day. Having you in my company and receiving the Glass. MC2 told me Leaplings like 1752 because everyone in England and the colonies leap at the same time. I have spoken often of the 11-day leap since hearing of it, though I never mention Leaplings or The Gift. So much so, the Master is arranging a celebration for me at Gough Square on the 2nd of September. Do say you’ll attend.’

  ‘Yes, please!’ I say and look at Big Ben.

  ‘OK,’ he says.

  ‘Sure,’ says GMT.

  ‘The sandglass,’ I say, ‘did you put it in a safe place?’

  ‘Indeed. It is ensconced in the candle cupboard and only I use it. It is my job to light up the house in the evenings.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s really important you tell us everything you know. MC2 is in prison and we need your help.’

  ‘I will do all I can to assist.’ Francis looks sad. MC2 is his friend too.

  ‘MC tells us some lady keeps tracking you,’ GMT says, wiping sweat off her brow.

  ‘I have not seen her of late.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Tall. Old. She wears spectacles and has a walking stick.’

  Oh my Chrono! That sounds like Anon. I suddenly feel sad. I like Anon a lot. I don’t want her to be a criminal. But I have to find out more.

  ‘Does she have tea with Mr Johnson?’ I say.

  ‘Occasionally. But other times she has approached me in the street. On those occasions, she shows no desire to greet the Master, only an obsession with timepieces.’

  ‘Did you get a photo of her?’

  ‘Alas, no. Kwesi told me to be discreet; the Chronophone must remain hidden. I have not had the opportunity to capture her likeness before she takes her leave.’

  ‘And you definitely haven’t seen her today?’

  ‘No. And it is fortunate I have not. For now I have in my possession the marine sandglass she alluded to it would be difficult to deny it.’

  ‘Francis, I know you would hate to tell a lie. I hate lies too. But please don’t tell her about your present. Will you promise me?’

  ‘I promise, Elle! But enough of the Glass. Tell me more about the future.’

  We walk. We talk. The buildings become cleaner, grander, the women’s dresses a little wider and even the horses are better groomed. I start to enjoy 1752, imagining what it would be like to live here until finally, we turn a corner and Francis seems to double in size with pride.

  ‘Behold, Westminster Bridge! And the Palace of Westminster.’

  I take in the bright new bridge, and the building we call the Houses of Parliament, and frown. It looks totally different to the one I know, less spiky, more chunky. And there’s something else niggling me. It takes a few seconds for it to sink in. Something’s missing. There’s no tower, no clock, no Big Ben!

  When we get back to the house and Francis knocks on the door, we wait at the bottom of the steps. Almost immediately the door flies open and Mistress Anna the housekeeper appears, sweaty and trembling. I’m
shocked. She’s not angry as I expected – she’s scared.

  ‘Master Francis, Master Francis, I am all aghast! That woman, if woman we can call her, has confounded me. My mind is in chaos. I saw her; then I saw her not. Call the surgeon, call the priest. We are bedevilled!’

  Chapter 16:00

  BAMBOOZLED

  ‘Madam, I am at your service,’ says Francis.

  He motions us up the steps. We follow him into the house, pleased Mistress Anna hasn’t turned us away but worried about her state of mind. My heart is pounding in my chest. I find it difficult when people act oddly and I don’t know them very well. Unpredictable behaviour raises my anxiety levels. I wish there was a grown-up around who could help Mistress Anna calm down. But Mr Johnson and the other occupants of the house are out. Then I remember that GMT’s with us, and she’s 4 leap +1, 17, so she might know what to do.

  Francis guides Mistress Anna into the brown room on the ground floor, where we sat yesterday before we went upstairs to meet Mr Johnson. He gently lowers her into a chair and I’m reminded of The Grandfather helping Millennia take her number 12 seat in The Vicious Circle.

  ‘Friends,’ he says, ‘watch over her! I must fetch the smelling salts and gin from below. Holler if you need me!’

  GMT walks over to Mistress Anna and sits next to her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Francis. Mistress Anna’s in safe hands.’ She lowers her voice a little, ‘Ma’am, we apologise for intruding at this difficult time.’

  There are a few seconds’ silence as Mistress Anna gradually becomes aware that we’re here.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘GMT, ma’am. And this is Elle, and this is Big Ben. They came to tea yesterday.’

  ‘With that woman!’ Mistress Anna goes rigid. ‘She has come to haunt me.’

  ‘Did she visit you today?’

  Mistress Anna shakes her head. ‘It was a visitation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Did she visit you or not?’

  I’m glad my voice is gentle but I hope that didn’t sound too harsh. It’s important we know if it was Anon. Mistress Anna doesn’t respond and I bite my tongue. GMT takes over.